


Department Stores and Anarchy and Other Misadventures

by edgeboi



Category: Assassins - Sondheim/Weidman
Genre: Bad SoundCloud rappers, Eventual Relationships, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rating May Change, Started as a joke but now its serious, Walmart, Walmart employee au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgeboi/pseuds/edgeboi
Summary: A Walmart AU. The Assassins work at Walmart and problems arise: mainly, the problem of a large, capitalist business in town.





	Department Stores and Anarchy and Other Misadventures

**Author's Note:**

> Neither vaingloriousactor nor I condone the actions of any of these people irl, nor do we own Stephen Sondheim's musical Assassins. 
> 
> I'm going to hell for this -doublereed11

It was a typical Saturday afternoon at the Walmart on Washington Street. The parking lot was full of all kinds of cars. People were steadily flowing in and out of the store, some with screaming children in tow. Multiple car alarms were going off, and combined with the barking of the dog some idiot had left in their car (on a summer day no less), being outside was no less than an adventure.

Inside was no different. Parents pushed carts with a week's worth of food while their children hung off the sides. At least four “CLEANUP IN AISLE THREE!” had been made due to fistfights. Bad music blared throughout the entire store (another Nickelback song?!?). The entire stack of bananas had been disturbed and would have to be put back in place for the second time in the past two hours. Children begged their parents to buy sugary foods in what seemed like every aisle. A couple decked out in Confederate flag patterned clothes had been at the store since it opened. A toddler was roaming the store wearing only a diaper while his oblivious mother talked to her friends on the phone. Over in the shopping cart bay, a woman in her early thirties was holding a picket sign emblazoned with the words “DOWN WITH WALMART AND ITS CAPITALIST WAYS!!!” 10pm could not come soon enough.

When the last customer left the store, all of the employees breathed a deep sigh of relief. Another day in actual hell was over. Except they were alive, and hell does not have HUGE SAVINGS! PRICE MATCH GUARANTEE!. The employees started making their way to the staff room for end-of-day briefing. 

Giuseppe Zangara, a cashier, was the first to enter. He took a chair near the back and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. Next were his fellow cashier John Wilkes Booth and greeter Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme. Were they a couple, Zangara briefly wondered, but soon went back to nursing his perpetually painful stomach. Sam Byck ambled in next, his step not even the slightest bit hindered by the alcohol that he had no doubt been consuming. It was unanimously agreed upon that Byck was the most dead inside of them all, and that was really saying something because the vast majority of retail workers are incredibly dead inside. Following him was Sarah Jane Moore, the help desk worker. She sat down next to Byck.

“Hey Sam, you gonna drink all of that” she asked, gesturing towards his half-full water bottle of cheap vodka. 

“No, get your own,” was his reply.

Thirty seconds later, Leon Czolgosz pushed open the doors. He found the nearest chair to door and sat down. He then continued to pry the glass shards out of his hands and arms which were bleeding all over his uniform shirt and khakis. He hissed in pain as he removed a particularly nasty one from his right wrist.

“You know, it’s like glass has some sort of personal problem with you,” Booth told him, but was ignored. At that moment, resident sellout Charles Guiteau entered the staff room.

“Yeah, he's right! Maybe you should get a different job!” he said.

“I can’t,” Leon replied.

“Yes you can. You're just a pessimist! Take me for example. Right now, I am a Walmart customer assistant. Next week, I’m going to be the assistant manager. As soon as my SoundCloud gets noticed, I'm going to get a record deal signed!” 

“I don’t have that opportunity.”

“To be fair, your music isn't much to brag about,” Moore cut in.

“You've reached Stage IV SoundCloud Disease. There's no going back. We even tried to save you,” Byck agreed.

“Is no one going to get Leon a first aid kit?” asked Booth.

“Hinckley can get it on his way in, wherever he is,” Moore replied. Fromme ran out to the loudspeaker and promptly yelled into it.

“John Hinckley, get down to the staff room as fast as possible with a first aid kit or so help me I will burn your photograph collection!”

Within two minutes, a young man with oversized glasses burst through the double doors carrying the requested first aid kit.

“Where were you?” Booth asked.

“Sorry,” Hinckley mumbled, tossing the kit to Leon. The employees sat in relative silence for several minutes until their manager finally entered the staff room.

Their manager was a mystery to all of them; no one knew his real name, but they all called him The Proprietor. He was a tall, imposing man in his fifties with a permanent evil smirk on his face. No one knew any personal information about him; it was all speculation. Moore claimed that he was an ex-con, Guiteau thought he was a secret agent, while Zangara thought everyone should just mind their own business and stay out of their boss’ personal life. 

“Alright, everyone! Have a good day?” he said in a sickly-sweet voice.

“Not really,” Byck mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought so. Zangara, take off your hood. Fromme and Booth, sit down. And Leon, what happened this time?”

“Container of pickle jars,” he said, eyes cast downward towards his now-bandaged hands and forearms. 

“You need to be more careful!”

“I try, the conditions are very unsafe.”

“One more comment like that and you're fired, you hear me?” the Proprietor shouted, way to close to Leon’s face. 

“Yes sir,” Leon replied.

“Good. I'm going to be blunt. Today was a horrible day. 29 separate incidents. 29! And we lost a significant amount of money due to broken products!”

“With all due respect, sir, the forklift is broken and there's no lights in the supply pantry,” Leon said quietly.

“Doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm done yelling. Go home.” With that, the Proprietor left the staff room.

“Glad that's over,” Moore said. A chorus of agreement sounded from the rest of the room.

\---

Leon Czolgosz left the Walmart and was about to walk home when he noticed a woman packing picket signs into the back of her car. It was the woman that protested every Saturday. Interested, he found himself walking in her direction. Before he could even ask the countless questions on his mind, she spoke to him.

“Bad day at work?,” she asked, pointing at the dried blood and bandages.

“It’s nothing.”

“No it’s not. Worker safety is sub-par. I am trying to change that.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“By getting enough people to point out the problem so that there is no excuse for it not to be solved. You, an employee, would be an excellent asset to us.”

“Us?”

“The anarchy movement.”

“Hmm.”

“You can make a real difference to better the lives of not only yourself, but your peers as well- I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name…”

“Czolgosz. Leon Czolgosz. And you are?”

“Emma Goldman. Good to meet you. We meet at 9:30 am on Wednesdays at the Center for Social Justice. Will you be there?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ve got to get home.”

“See you then.” And that was it. It was the word, the motivation, the spark Leon needed to have the courage to revolt. He'd make a difference and come next Saturday, the first person to know would be The Proprietor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad SoundCloud rapping meme: https://youtu.be/QHYwprmWMfY


End file.
